


A Planet at the Edge of Understanding

by MayAChance



Category: The Martian (2015), The Martian - All Media Types, The Martian - Andy Weir
Genre: (no one actually dies), Apathy, Ares IV, Ares Program, Astronauts, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Isolation, Late Night Ponders, Listlessness, Mars, Movie Nights, NASA, Near Future, Outer Space, Science
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2018-12-04 05:05:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11548071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayAChance/pseuds/MayAChance
Summary: There is only one scenario the Ares IV crew, impeccably trained over the course of three years, was not prepared for. It takes four years for NASA to learn of the mistake they made when they pronounced Mark Watney dead on Sol 6.But that wasn’t what was astonishing- oh no, that was the faded lettering on his EVA suit, the once bright colours of the American flag on his shoulder, and most of all the dulled name: Watney.





	1. Chapter 1

Despite the thousands of scientists across hundreds of fields that worked on the Ares Missions, the one thing that they didn’t consider was the effect that such long-term space travel would have on a person. Ares I, a complete and utter bust in all the areas it was intended to study, turned out to be a treasure trove of information on the effects of long term space travel on the human psyche. As it turns out, there’s this delusion that astronauts suffer from- being able to open a door and go for a walk is so ingrained into our brains that, after significant periods of time, some astronauts start to believe that they can go outside. As it turns out, this effect is only heightened by longer periods of time in space.

Which is why, about ten months into the thirteen-month mission, astronaut Karl Tucker was tackled outside of a VAL when his delusions became too much for the astronaut to handle.

Nowadays, NASA has collected enough data on social isolation over long periods of time that they can predict which astronaut candidates are ideal. Long story short, the calmer you stay when locked in a room for ten days straight, the better candidate you are. NASA instituted this particular training exercise for Ares II, and the end result was six astronauts that did not go crazy. Likewise, the Ares III crew participated in the exercise and, again, the five astronauts that returned to Earth did not go crazy. The sixth astronaut, Mark Watney, died in a sandstorm shortly after landing on Mars. The Ares III crew had it harder than Ares II; for starters, one member of the crew was not a native English speaker thus creating tiny pockets of isolation amongst them. Secondly, Mark Watney died. Despite the obvious implications this would have on the crew, it was worsened by the role that Watney played in the crew dynamics. As the most social and friendliest of the group, Watney was comparable the glue that kept the team interconnected. His loss was debilitating.

Watney’s loss lead to the darkest period of time space travel has seen since the manned Horus I failed back in 2019. In stark contrast to the Horus missions and cancellations, the Ares missions have been able to continue. Given that there was already a prepared mission site, it would be stupid not to continue.

Which is why my mission, the Ares IV, was able to launch in 2039. With optimal alignments, the journey from Earth to Mars takes about four months, which is exactly how NASA designed it to be, for the obvious reasons. Four months there, one month on Mars, and five months back, give or take a little. Ares I collected information on the movement of liquids in the decreased gravity; Ares II collected information on the volcanic activity on Mars; Ares III collected information on Martian soil and the possibility of cultivation; Ares IV will collect information on the impact that meteorites has on geology and the weather of the planet. Thus, members of my crew are trained in atmospheric physics/chemistry and geology. Of course, with only six crew members you can’t have everyone with training in only one area. Rather, most of us have at least two areas of study, and we combine engineering, meteorology, chemistry, geology, physics, and the general required stuff for being in a spaceship: EVAs, piloting, systems operator, reactor technician, etc. Some of these jobs go together: Commander Sebastian Blair is meteorology (both atmospheric chemistry and atmospheric physics), Rebecca Reed is geology and physics, Esther Holland is chemistry and the EVA specialist, Nathanael Carter is systems operator and reactor technician, I’m the doctor, and finally Isaac Spencers is our pilot and engineer. I’m also the unfortunate astronaut that’s in charge of our PR.

After launching on June 30, the four month trip had us arriving on Mars on November 8, today. Sol 1.

* * *

 

Upon arrival to the Schiaparelli Crater in the MDV, we immediately began to set up the Hab, our ninety square foot home base for the next 31 Sols. There’s a lot to do in the first few days before we can get onto the real science: set up solar panels, bury the RTG, ensure that all equipment is functioning within normal parameters, take inventory. The single minor problem with our site is the MAV. Despite being landed by one of the best pilots NASA has ever had, it’s located a kilometer from the rest of the site, about a fifteen minute walk and a few minutes in one of the Rovers; it’s important that it begins to produce oxygen _now_ so that it’s prepared for an emergency evacuation at any point, so I have the unfortunate duty of wandering out there with my good friend Spencers.

Spencers stands at a solid 182 centimetres, exactly six feet tall, landing him at a solid fifteen centimetres taller than me. Were I to look over, I wouldn’t be able to see his face through the mask but I know that he has dark hair and eyes, and that he’s wearing his permanent frown. I'm not sure I've ever seen the man smile.

As the pilot, he’s the one that boots up Rover I, and drives us out there. It’s hardly a smooth drive, but nothing in comparison to the harsh, uneven roads of rural my home British Columbia. It takes us about five minutes to arrive there, but by the time I can see the MAV in the distance, I know that something isn’t right. I nudge Spencers; “Do you see the base?” We’re speaking over the coms, and I can hear the quiet background chatter silence. Spencers responds:

“It looks like there’s something around the base. Commander, have there been any reports of rockslides in the area? Anything that could have affected the MAV?” It should be impossible, but humankind has been redefining impossible for thousands of years so the possibility exists: based on all knowledge of Schiaparelli that NASA has, the MAV is far enough away from the crater walls that any slides wouldn’t affect it at all. However, NASA’s knowledge is limited and it has been known to be incorrect in the past. Most obvious is the classification of storms on Mars, most notable of all being the storm that stole Mark Watney's life.

Sebastian Blair’s calm voice comes over the comms: “Nothing of the sort. Keep us updated.” His order is as firm as ever, but after over two years of knowing the man, I know that he’s masking fear. It’s illogical; we have the recent satellite images of the area, and thus we know that there hasn’t been a landslide. But a small part of me still says, “What if there has? What if we’re stranded? What if we’re going to die?” I push my frayed nerves down as we get closer to the MAV.

Holland mutters something about aliens.

Closer up, I know that there hasn’t been a landslide. “Not a landslide,” I say aloud. “But there’s definitely something there.” I squint at the object and it becomes clear: two separate shapes, both identical and held together in some way. “Commander, is Rover II still at the Hab?”

“What?” Blair’s voice has morphed from calm to confused. “Yes. What’s going on out there Morgan?”

Before I can speak, Spencers beats me to it: “Sir, there appears to be two Rovers parked outside of the MAV.” He brings Rover I to a halt and we clamber out, immediately drifting to the Rovers. From this close, I can see that they’re covered in Martian dust, untouched over a significant period of time. Reaching one hand upwards, I brush off a patch of the dust to reveal the letters underneath: Ares III. My eyes flicker towards Spencers, and I meet his gaze for a mere few seconds before he speaks. “It’s from Ares III.”

The confusion on the other end is palpable. The surviving members of the Ares III crew all returned to Earth safe, and it’s impossible for the Rover to have traveled 3200 kilometers from Acidalia Planitia on it's own. That traitorous part of my brain starts to whisper: Mark Watney. Mark Watney. Mark Watney. But I dismiss it. His bio monitor showed no pulse or brain activity, and his suit breeched. Mark Watney couldn’t have survived more than a minute of decompression. Unless the hole was patched. Impossible, of course; Watney would have almost certainly been unconscious. But my brain continues down that path: if blood had seeped into the gap, the liquid would have immediately evaporated in the atmosphere leaving behind only residue. Depending on the size of the wound, it was possible for the decompression to have been stopped: but that didn’t change the bio monitor. It pronounced, clear as day, that Mark Watney was dead, an indisputable read on his vitals.

I made my way over to the MAV’s entrance, and on my command the VAL (Vehicular Airlock) opened. “Entering the MAV,” I reported, beginning to haul myself into the MAV. Behind me, Spencers followed. We made out silent way up the ladder, and upon emerging on the other side of the airlock, my suit beeped at me. Glancing down to the display on my wrist revealed the problem. Or to be more accurate, the lack thereof. Seventy-eight percent nitrogen, twenty-one percent oxygen, one percent other. “Commander we’re reading a breathable atmosphere here.”

Blair responded immediately; “Morgan, Spencers, describe to me exactly what you’re seeing.”

We did. The sleek interior of the MAV, smooth metal glistening in the synthetic light, and when I mentioned that the lights were on Carter, in charge of all systems, spluttered over the comms, panic creeping into his voice. The MAV is powered by fuel created through a reaction with the Martian atmosphere, and everything the MAV does uses that fuel. Now the MAV has way more fuel than it actually needs for this very reason, but the question remains: how long have the lights been on? In all likelihood it’s a minor glitch, something that happened recently. A recent report comes to mind, one that showed that there had been a minor glitch in the MAV a few weeks ago. Nothing serious, and a full system reboot had fixed the problem. Or so we thought.

The MAV only has two rooms: the VAL and the Control Room, where we would all strap ourselves in for the return to the Hermes in 30 Sols. It’s near bare, with a control panel and six chairs. I turn in a slow circle, observing the CR when a flash of movement catches my eye. Like any good predator would, my eyes latch onto the motion even as it disappears, my instincts screaming at me. Half tell me to hide, and the other half tell me to hunt. I shove them away as my fight or flight response is triggered, heartrate rising as adrenaline begins to circle through my veins. I hiss at Spencers, “Did you see that,” keeping my voice low in the silent chamber. He nods back to me.

On the other end of the comms, Blair is losing his cool. I can almost hear him hyperventilating over the comms, and if that wasn’t enough, he’s repeating, “See what?” Except with a vast row of question marks and exclamation points at the end. Spencers hushes him as we circle towards the movement on slow feet. As we’re about to see what’s in the chair, it makes a noise, a low groan that echoes through the enclosed space. It’s a pathetic noise, like the mewling of a tiny kitten except _this is a spaceship on an uninhabitable planet_. _There are no kittens_. I come around the chair and am faced with the form of a person, emancipated, and curled around himself in the remainders of an EVA suit. He looked downright pathetic, with pale wisps of hair curling around his face, chunks missing, and an untamed beard that had been growing for some time. But that wasn’t what was astonishing- oh no, that was the faded lettering on his EVA suit, the once bright colours of the American flag on his shoulder, and most of all the dulled name: Watney.

“Mark Watney?!” My tone is as incredulous as Holland was when she found out that Americans don’t use their vacuums on walls. Which, yes, is something that actually happened. Apparently in Germany they use vacuums for _everything_.

On the other end all I can hear is spluttering. Carter shouts, “What the _****_?!” While Reed says, “ _Watney!?”_ with her own fair share of incredulity. It’s Blair who shushes them, cutting through the chatter with a few sharp words before ordering us to explain; we ignore him in favour of staring at the dilapidated man before us. At the sound of his name, Watney blinks at us, eyes clouded over with a thick haze as he considers us. Rather than moving or talking or doing anything whatsoever, Spencers and I gaze at the man before us. Against my will, my brain has already begun the process of assessing his physical state. It’s hard when he’s wearing his EVA suit, but some quick math reveals that he should have starved three years ago, and thus it’s a safe bet that he’s starving. But I have no idea what he’s been doing for the past 1500 Sols, so it’s impossible for me to know what he’s suffering from. The one thing I do know that’s happened is extreme isolation. Like four years of extreme isolation. My brain runs over the consequences without my permission: hallucinations, insanity, unexplained death. And after that, if a person did survive, they would likely never be able to reintegrate with society.

Sure to broadcast my movements, I pull my helmet off and rest a hand on Watney’s shoulder. He starts, shaking as he blinks at me. His confusion is palpable, and panic is clear in his eyes as his gaze shoots his gaze back and forth between me and my hand. When his eyes paused to gaze into mine, as if trying to find an undiscernible secret there, his emotions became clear to me. His wide eyes and furrowed brow could have been read as astonishment, but my degree in psychology suggested something else- confusion, and no small measure of fear. “Hey there,” I say to him in an even voice, forcing all the tremors from them. “My names Daniella Morgan. I’m with the Ares IV. Are you Mark Watney?” Beneath my fingers, Watney began to tremble. The shivers wrack his body, and for a split second I can see the whites of his eyes all around. Grudging, I bring my hand back and the shivers slow before picking up again. He’s still trembling as he nods, jerking motions.

Behind me, Spencers is speaking into the comms, a long stream that couldn’t have only been to soothe the others, but also to soothe himself. It boils down to a single, simple truth: Mark Watney is alive, and in our MAV. I take vague note of the initial disbelief before the understanding settles upon them. In the distance, I hear Blair mutter something about how writing the report for NASA is going to be a disaster. I ignore them in favour of considering Watney.

“Do you have a helmet around, Mark?” I ask when the trembling begins to slow. “I’d like to get you back to my crew. I’m a doctor, like your Dr. Beck.” When his face remains blank, I prompt him further. “Do you remember Dr. Beck, Mark? Christopher Beck?”

His face changes, expression shifting as a frown graces his gaunt features once more. I grimace at the sight, watching the skin stretch over his bones in a disgusting pull. There’s a long pause before he speaks, and when he does his voice is cracked and dry, as though he hasn’t spoken in weeks. When he does speak, it’s with a stutter. “C-Chris?” I make an effort to smile at him, and despite the fact that it’s forced it doesn’t seem to make a difference to him. He looks at me and for a split second he’s almost childlike, happy and smiling without a care in the world. But then it all drains away, and I’m left with a husk of a man.

I force another smile. “That’s right. I’m like Chris. I can help you.” Once again, I rest a hand on his shoulder, and he flinches but settles within seconds, and I take it for a win. “But Mark? I need to know where the helmet of your EVA suit is.” It’s enough to get the starved man moving, and he gestures, a wide, sweeping motion that is weak all the same, into the depths of the Control Room. The light catches on the helmet for a split second, but it’s enough to tell me where it is and I take it, plucking it from beneath the controls and returning. By broadcasting my movements, I avoid making Watney flinch when I secure his helmet onto his EVA suit, but through the glass I can see his fear. “Are you ready to go for a walk?”

At my prompting, Watney makes his hesitant way to his feet. I can see his legs tremble with the effort, but he stays standing as Spencers and I guide him through the VAL. His grasp on the ladder is weak, so Spencers and I climb down before him, and I’m halfway astonished when his grip doesn’t loosen. The thirty seconds that it would take Spencers and I to return to Rover I takes Watney three minutes, his steps tiny and low as though walking on thin ice. When we do make it, he almost collapses into the chair. He doesn’t say a word during the drive back to the Hab, just stares, listless, into the distance. I start marking off symptoms in my head: apathy, listlessness, exhaustion. For more detailed information, I’d need to do a thorough exam, but for the time being it’s textbook starvation. It takes a second for my brain to remind myself of what starvation victims die from most often: the varying ailments their weakened immune systems can’t deal with.

Watney came to Mars with a unique blend of bacterial life. Once on the Hermes, that unique blend came to be mixed with five other unique blends, though they were already somewhat similar due to the time the six Ares III members spent together. By the time they arrived at Mars, the bacteria had begun to adapt to space travel. Upon being stranded on Mars, Watney’s bacteria would have begun to change once more, creating a very specific set of bacteria that existed only on Watney.

Under the same circumstances, my crew came to Mars with our own bacteria, which evolved, separate, from Watney’s bacteria and thus, it was quite likely that Watney would catch something from us that could be dangerous, given how immuno-compromised he is.

We arrive at the Hab, and are greeted upon arrival by a stony-faced Sebastian Blair, the man looking as intimidating as possible when he stands at five feet, six inches and is encased in a bright green EVA suit. Spencers hops out first, greeting our commander with a cheery, “Commander!” and as much of a grin as the man can manage. Blair gives him a look like, “Oh my God you were supposed to control Morgan, what are we going to do with her now.” As soon as I hop out of Rover I, he starts berating me with all of the, “How dare you pull a prank of such bad taste,” and, “Did you really think we’d fall for that.”

Watney stumbles out of the Rover after me, and Blair’s facial expression crumbles as his speech dies. Instead, all the man can croak out is a, “What the _hell_?!”

I nod. “Commander Blair, I’d like to introduce you to Dr. Mark Watney of Ares III. Mark, this is the Ares IV commander, Sebastian Blair.” It takes effort to keep my voice even, a formal voice that attempts to remain soothing. Watney waves at Blair, a wide and sweeping motion, and I continue. “I need to get him inside for a more in depth exam. He’s in the final stages of starvation, so we need to be careful about potential exposure to pathogens.”

Blair steps aside, and we pass into the Hab. When I finally draw Watney from his battered EVA suit, the dark blue NASA-issued clothes are revealed, as threadbare as I would expect after four years of heavy wear and tear. Careful coaxing convinces Watney to let me investigate his chest, and despite the fact that he’s quite a ways on the skinny side, almost dangerously underweight, he’s not as skinny as I’d expect him to be, given that the man’s been living with limited resources on Mars for the past four years. I don’t query him on it, and rather ask how he’s feeling. Watney replies with a distant hum, a single note that goes on for a few seconds before tapering off. But he’s frowning, having understood my question and considering his answer. A long minute later he answers, with a single word. Tired. I pat his shoulder, and leave him to rest.

All the wounds I have observed are superficial, nothing more than little cuts and bruises. They’re likely healing at a less than optimal rate due to the starvation, but they’re healing none the less. No infections, nothing concerning. In the void left by the lack of physical injuries, my mind turns to the psychological ones. To be clear, I am not a psychologist. I took the minimal number of psychology courses required to pass, and all of the refresher courses required by NASA. This means that I have a basic understanding of the human psyche and enough knowledge to diagnose the likely issues my crew will face: anxiety and depression. We have an assigned psychiatrist back on Earth who is designated to take care of all our psychological issues. While I’m technically qualified to diagnose psychological disorders, it’s best left to Dr. Alvarez, the psychologist for Ares IV.

The minute I step away from Watney, the man slipping into a deep sleep, Blair has me write an assessment of Watney’s condition, and I give him this: _Mark Watney is beneath optimal weight, and is listless and apathetic. Given the symptoms, it is likely that Watney is in the final stages of starvation. Further, Watney has a variety of small cuts and minor bruises on his arms, legs, chest, and back. All are superficial and uninfected. No psychological analysis has been made as of yet, though Watney is most likely experiencing the effects of long term isolation._

Blair shrugs and takes it, then writes a stiff, formal letter to NASA, that reads as, “ _Crewmen Morgan and Spencers investigated the MAV, and found an abandoned Rover at the base of the MAV that was mistaken for rocks or other hazardous obstacles. Upon further investigation, Morgan and Spencers found that the MAV was in use, with the oxygen reclaimer functioning and the MAV connected to solar energy. The MAV was turned on by Mark Watney, who Morgan and Spencers found in the CR of the MAV. Watney is in the final stages of starvation and has superficial cuts and bruises, none of which are life threatening. Dr. Morgan reports that Watney is in stable conditions, and has not yet received a chance to complete a psychological assessment. We await further instruction on the matter.”_ More accurately, it says: Hi NASA. Remember the astronaut you killed four years ago? Turns out you actually left him behind and he’s alive and not dying any time soon. We include a picture of Watney for proof. Then the report continues onto other topics, summing up what Blair would have sent along later now. The less time the message spent shooting through space, the better.

My exhaustion takes hold, and I drift off to sleep. It’s late, now. And we’ve had a long day.

I’m awoken earlier than I would like by the quiet patter of feet against the Hab’s floor, and when I blink my eyes open Watney is wandering around the confined space, arms hanging limp at his sides and head bowed to the ground. If he were still, I’d guess he were praying, but as is he’s muttering to himself. When I strain my ears, I catch a few words: potatoes, potatoes, potatoes. This is as good of a clue to Watney’s mental state as any, so I stay still and observe. He keeps pacing, shuffling across the floor and one of his feet drags more than the other, and at an odd angle. I make note of it for later. He keepers, muttering and as he does so I catch more and more of what he says, and I finally piece together that he’s discussing plants, and calories, and rations, like he’s explaining the exact math and science of not starving to death to another person. My memory wanders back to the video logs we keep, and it occurs to me that Watney must have kept thousands of these. Somehow, Watney’s inane chatter is soothing against the quiet of the Hab, and I drift back to sleep.

* * *

 

NASA’s answer to our, “Yay, Mark Watney’s alive!” email is this: _Hermes, be advised of the following conditions that Watney is likely suffering from: malnutrition, PTSD, anxiety, depression, disassociation disorders. Complete daily reports on Watney until informed otherwise. Will arrange discussion with Dr. Shields for Watney. Currently advising that Ares IV stay the complete 31 days._ It’s cold and uncaring, but it is what it is and I make sure to brief the crew on how to act around Watney. On the third day after finding him, he starts talking to us, first little pieces like names and places until he finally spills to Reed that he collected almost a thousand samples (labelled with Sol numbers and approximate locations) from the Acidalia Planitia Hab to the Olympus Mons Hab from Ares II, from there to the Valles Marineris, and finally to the Schiaparelli Crater. Reed practically squeals, and retrieves the samples from Watney’s Rover, which he refers to as the FrankenRover on more than one occasion. After his bout of talking, he’s back to silent, watching as we work. It’s unnerving, but his eyes are clear and focused, so it’s an improvement.

This, of course, is relayed to NASA like it’s the most important thing in the world, but what catches NASA’s eye is not the improvement in Watney’s attitude and rather the samples that Watney brought. It’s typical NASA: care more about science than the well-being of the person that got left on Mars. The bright side is that they’ve arranged for Watney to be able to talk to the Ares III crew on Sol 5. There’ll be a long lag time, of course, but Dr. Alvarez and Dr. Shields (who was psychologist for Ares III) insist that it will be good for him, so Carter sets it up.

We hear Watney laugh for the first time when he’s speaking to his crew. He smiles and grins at the computer, leaning in closer so that his shoulders hunch around the screen, as though shielding his conversation from prying eyes. It is, after all, a private conversation so we don’t interrupt. Later that night, Watney acts better. He talks when we eat dinner together, and smiles a cheeky grin at Spencers that makes Spencers grin back, showing his rare, toothy smile. I don’t anticipate the change to last for long.

* * *

 

The Ares I landing site was Valles Marineris, a canyon referred to by many as the Grand Canyon of Mars, but I can’t even begin to describe how inaccurate that is: for starters, the Grand Canyon is _nothing_ in comparison to Valles Marineris, a mere 447 kilometres long in comparison to the 4000 of Valles Marineris. The Martian canyon is almost ten times as long and almost seven times as deep, and as long as the United States. It’s a treasure trove of knowledge on how liquid flows in the 0.4 G gravity, because of the way carbon dioxide or water once flowed through the canyon. Olympus Mons, the tallest mountain on any planet in the solar system, is two and a half times the size of Everest. In total, it’s almost as big as France from above. And likes Valles Marineris, Olympus Mons is a treasure trove of information. NASA figured that there’s got to be a reason _why_ Olympus Mons is so tall, and Ares II figured out why. To make a long story very short, tectonic plates don’t move on Mars. They’re stationary, and thus so are the hotspots. So whatever sits on top of that keeps getting bigger. All of this is irrelevant to the current situation. Yay! Big Martian canyon! Big Martian volcano! But what does this have to do with Mark Watney?

NASA likes to be redundant. The Hermes has at least four copies of every piece they could have copies of, which is just about everything. Even the atmosphere could refill itself a few times over if need be. Every Ares Mission is sent off with 56 Sols of food, rather than 31. It’s NASA’s insurance: astronauts are less likely to die if they have a greater ability to repair whatever has gone wrong. These 56 Sols of food have proven to be vital to Mark Watney’s survival. Ares III left behind 50 Sols of food for six people, while Ares I and II left behind 35 Sols of food each. Combined this is 120 Sols of food for six people, making 720 Sols of food for a single person. On a 2/3 ration diet, this makes for 1200 Sols of food on the dot. Which misses the requirement of 1387 Sols of food required to have made it to us, Ares IV. Another thing that NASA likes to send with their astronauts is vitamins. Lots and lots of vitamins, which means that Watney didn’t actually have to scrounge up any nutritious food, just food that would provide calories. Lots of calories. I haven’t figured out how he did it yet, but I sure do intend to.

* * *

 

So I learned that NASA psychologists insisted on having actual food (not the freeze dried stuff we normally have) sent with Ares III so that the crew would be able to cook a Thanksgiving meal, something about how it would be beneficial for them from a psychological point of view. So NASA sent up 24 potatoes, four per crew member, sucked into an airtight plastic seal so that they wouldn’t spoil before Thanksgiving. The turkey was frozen solid, and the plan was to actually have the beans that Watney would have grown on Mars. But that’s irrelevant, because beans don’t provide anywhere near the caloric intake that Watney would have needed. The potatoes, however, would have been a viable source of food if Watney were able to get plants out of them. And given that he’s a botanist, I have no question on whether or not he would have been able to. With the addition of the rations from Ares I and II, Watney would have been able to grow those extra 187 Sols of food (with some left over, based on the several hundred potatoes we found in FrankenRover).

On Earth, it takes about 90 days to grow full size potatoes. An easy first assumption would be that it would take just as long on Mars, except that here there are no parasites or competing plants, and Watney would have been able to give every plant individual attention. This would increase the yield over the course of the 90 days, but I don’t know by how much. I’m not a botanist, and if I want the answers I’m going to have to ask Watney.

* * *

 

The record for the longest consecutive days in space is 437, held by a Russian man named Valeri Polyakov who set it from 1994-1995. Polyakov completed some 7000 orbits of Earth, and was the sole subject on how long term zero gravity effects the human body. He is, quite literally, the reason that the Ares Program is possible, because it was determined that Polyakov experienced very few ill effects from his time in space. The sole notable note was that Polyakov’s mood dropped after going to space, and after returning to Earth. In both cases, his mood stabilized within a few weeks. Polyakov proved that astronauts could spend significant periods of time in space and experience minimal side effects. When Ares I launched, the public believed that the crew would break that record, but the truth is that an Ares Mission clocks in at about 400 days, and some of that time was spent on a planet. But the Ares I crew did set a similar record: longest consecutive time spent outside of Earth orbit.

To be clear, I don’t know this because I’m a nerd or because I’m interested in the history of space travel, or any such willing endeavour like that. I know this because Mark _*******_ Watney woke up at one in the morning and started scribbling on some extra pieces of paper, and then woke me up to inform me that he had broken the record for longest time outside of Earth orbit by almost 1000 days, which is super awesome except for the bit where it’s _one in the ******* morning and all I want to be doing is sleeping._ I thought that all of his bad jokes were created for his role as PR for Ares III, but no it seems that he has an annoying sense of humour and a taste for jokes. This is irrelevant, because I threatened to shoot him full of sedatives unless he went back to bed.

* * *

 

We get the full story out of Watney on Sol 27. Blair sits him down in the kitchen, and says, “Mark, we need to know what happened.” Watney looks on the verge of panic, but shoves back his emotions and begins to tell a story. He’s seated at the table, and if his reverence of coffee is anything to go by, the only reason he has yet to flee is that he’s being bribed with the stuff. The hot cup is cradled between his hands, fingers wrapped loosely around the sides. Blair walks him into it: “On Sol 6, you received news that a dust storm had escalated to severe, and Commander Lewis made the decision to evacuate. On the way to the MAV, you were struck with debris.”

Watney nods. “The com array, yeah. It went straight through my suit and bio monitor and into me. The blood and com array managed to form a week seal and I woke up about,” here he pauses and considers, “eleven hours later, based on my oxygen usage. I got back to the Hab and patched myself up. I didn’t realize that the others were gone until a little later, when I saw the landing struts.” He becomes very quiet, unspeaking and rather considering, face painted with a half-there expression. Normally, when he’s quiet like this there’s a flicker of a smile, but now he’s silent and blank, remembering. I reach out and nudge him, and Watney flickers back to continue talking. “I wasn’t ready to die, and Mars wasn’t ready to let me live. I counted out all of the ration packs, and I had enough food for three hundred Sols, four hundred on rationing which, obviously, wasn’t enough.” His expression, though remaining distant, changes to longing. “NASA sent us up with some potatoes for Thanksgiving, so I planted them in a mixture of sand, soil and crap, and they grew. On Earth, it takes 90 days for the potatoes to be ready to harvest but I was able to make them grow faster by giving each plant individual attention. In forty Sols, I could grow fifty Sols of food, so I kept growing potatoes. Over four hundred Sols, I grew five hundred Sols of food, which was enough to last me until you guys arrived if I collected the rations from Ares I and Ares II. So I set out around Sol 420, drove to Olympus Mons and grabbed those rations, then went to Valles Marineris and collected those rations, and then I drove here.” He becomes silent, waiting for us to continue a conversation we wanted to stop.

Holland was the first to break. The fiery brunette broke away from the table to storm off to her bunk, shaking her head. For all of her claims about how being German affected her emotions, she was no more heartless than any of the rest of us. Almost immediately, Spencers stood, calling, “Hey Holland, come on,” after her as he followed. By the end only Blair and I remained with the trembling astronaut. Watney’s shoulders hook in increments, shivers that wracked his body for minutes at a time before stopping, and then starting again. As I watched Watney shiver, I couldn’t help but think that the man would never be cleared to own a weapon again, let alone go into space. His journey had been strangely ideal, with little going wrong. And yet here he was, panicking and trembling his way through a panic attack. I sighed, and went to comfort Watney.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ares III crew learns of Mark's survival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much. I've never received this response from a work before and it means so much to me.

 The crew of the Ares III met no less than once a month, for a variety of reasons. The first was that they had spent thirteen months living together in close quarters, and had become rather dependent on one another’s company over that period of time. The second was that they were the most socially compatible group of people one would find anywhere, and thus they enjoyed one another’s company greatly. The third was that none of the five astronauts could quite bring themselves to separate from the memory of Mark Watney, the ill-fated sixth member of the Ares III crew. Strange as it is, the only healthy reason the Ares III crew had to meet was the second reason, as being so dependent on such a group of people discouraged forming new bonds, and because hanging to the memory of a man dead for almost four years is remarkably unhealthy.

Yet in this particular month, the Ares III crew had met no fewer than ten times, and it was only the third week of the month. The first had been a regular meeting, a barbecue at the house of Rick and Marissa Martinez, where they lived with their two children. The second had been impromptu, the Lewis, Johanssen-Beck, Vogel and Martinez children hoping to see each other sooner than they normally did. From there, it continued: the children wanted to meet up, Vogel wanted to talk science, Martinez made a pun so horrible they all had to meet up and shout at him for it. It was all very normal, right up until they were ordered to meet up by one Venkat Kapoor, the director of the Mars missions. At first, the crew assumed the worst: someone was injured on Mars, someone was dead on Mars, the MAV had exploded. (After all, present data suggested that 1/3 Ares Missions would end with someone dead on the Red Planet. Who knows? Maybe that number will become 2/4.)

Kapoor had them all sit around a table in the Johnson Space Center, the conference room empty save for the crew and Kapoor. At the far end of the room is an immense TV screen, projected onto it the background of Kapoor’s computer, with little icons at the bottom for a variety of programs: the internet, his email, and a few other work-related programs. His background is a high-quality picture of a nebula, the cosmic dust shimmering against the darkness of space. Kapoor himself stands to the right of the screen, holding a little remote for operating the TV, and casual in a way that shouldn’t have been possible given the suit he dressed in.

Commander Melissa Lewis sits at the head of the table, leaning back in the chair as she regards Kapoor, a mixture of curiosity and nerves colouring her expression, all emotion bathed away as she works to hide it. The remainder of her crew are not as careful with their expressions. Rick Martinez, the best pilot to have ever flown for NASA, is skittish in an obvious, fearful way. His fingers tap at the table’s surface, changing motion on occasion to trace patterns, and he shifts every few seconds as though he can’t find the comfortable position he searches for. The least collected is Beth Johanssen. While she does sit still, and her fingers don’t tap, she sits stiff, like a person unaccustomed to the formal environment that Johanssen has spent her life living in. Her eyes are wide, unblinking, as she scans the room for signs of trouble. She was the last person to see Mark Watney alive. Even Alexander Vogel, the normally controlled and steady German astronaut, is on edge. He sits deep in the chair, arms crossed across his chest and with the goatee, he looks like a supervillain. As Watney would say, he’s a German chemist who used to have a base on Mars. Despite his evident composure, Vogel is forced to suppress the occasional violent shiver that wracks down his spine.

The last to arrive is Dr. Christopher Beck, a man standing at five and a half feet with dark brown hair cut around his face in formal style. He rushes in at the last minute, and is met with smiles and nods from the rest of his crew. He accepts them with a similar nod, and slips into the chair next to Johanssen, reaching out to take her hand beneath the table. Lewis glances over with a tiny smile before returning her attention to Kapoor- they’re not half as subtle as they think they are. Kapoor clears his throat, and the silent chatter shared in glances stops, all eyes coming to rest on Kapoor as he begins to speak.

“At approximately 3 hours, local time, we received an unscheduled transmission from the Ares IV crew.” Kapoor fiddles with the remote and curses under his breath, jamming at buttons until the TV screen goes blank. “Goddammit,” he mutters, “stupid fucking thing never works.” He jams a few more buttons, until the TV lights up once more, this time with a transmission displayed on it. Kapoor doesn’t read it out, rather allowing the crew to absorb the news at their own speed. _Houston_ , it reads, _be advised: upon arrival at Schiaparelli Crater, the crew noticed abnormalities with the MAV. Upon investigation, Dr. Morgan and Crewman Spencers found Mark Watney, Ares III, within the MAV._ Johanssen reads the final words first, inhaling every letter with the same vigorous attention that makes her such an excellent coder. It signed off with, _We await further instruction on the matter_. While Johanssen sat back with a sharp inhale, regarding the screen, Lewis turned her steely gaze to glare at Kapoor.

“Venkat,” she said with a voice like wind over the arctic tundra, “this is _not_ funny.” The full force of her gaze rested solely on the Hindu man. Her voice whipped upwards like a gale, catching the anger of her crew and spinning it anew upon Kapoor. “How can you show this to us and pretend that it’s real. Mark’s dead, Venkat, and we left him there! I never took you for a cruel man.” Bitter with disappointment, Lewis scowls at the Director of Mars Missions, and the storm she created settles. “You may not have known Mark Watney, but we did. This might be funny to you, but we lost a friend and a crewmate.”

Kapoor tapped something on the remote, and an image appeared on the screen. The image was just the beginning frame of a video, the play button framed over the face of a middle-aged man. Even viewing just his face, it was clear that the man was thinner than he should have been. Skin hugged his cheekbones, creating sinks beneath his cheekbones. Light brown hair hangs over his forehead in a messy sweep, just brushing over deep brown eyes. A short, thin beard hangs from his chin, and despite the man’s rugged condition he’s smiling. His eyes, shadowed, are bright yet tired. Kapoor taps something else, and the video begins to play. The first few seconds are jerky, the video taking a moment to figure life out and be reborn anew in the form of a working video.

On screen, Mark Watney jolts to life with a smile that could light the sun. “Hey guys,” he begins, voice crackling in the recording, breaking as he speaks for the first time in what could very well be a long time. Around his shoulders, he draws a blanket tighter and shifts until it envelops him like a hug, hanging loose over his shoulders and draped around his chest. “So. It’s been a while.” There’s a scarce hint of the humour the Ares III crew had once known from their comrade. “I guess a lot’s happened, and I guess you guys kind of blame yourselves for that but, seriously guys, it’s not your fault. I would have made the same decision if I were in your position. There’s more important shit that’s more relevant than four years old. For starters,” his gaze is almost accusatory through the screen, staring right at the crew. “Really, Commander. Disco?! And why, my fellow men of the Ares III mission, did none of us bring _any_ music to listen to?” Lewis begins to cry, tears blinked from her eyes and shoulders shaking in tiny, halted motions. Nearby, Beck grasps his wife’s hand tighter, the beginning of a tear stroking his cheek. On screen, Watney pauses and grows more serious. “You guys did nothing wrong. Remember that? For me?” He grins. “Watney out.” The video cuts off, leaving behind a room of crying astronauts and Venkat Kapoor.

That evening, the Ares III crew sits in silence, together. Before them, a TV screen displays a press conference being given by Annie Montrose, the spokeswoman of NASA. She’s not yet forty, yet her blonde hair has already begun to gray from the stressful job. The NASA podium before her is simple yet elegant, and behind Montrose is a glass wall that provides a view into the Johnson Space Center. She doesn’t move as she speaks, but it’s clear to the Ares III crew that she’s nervous, on edge. “Good afternoon,” is her beginning. “Thank you all for gathering here on such short notice. We have important news to be discussed. We will not be taking any questions at this time, though a full press conference will be held at five PM local time.” She pauses, tidying her notes for a few short seconds before continuing onwards. “At three AM, local time, we received an unscheduled transmission from the Ares IV crew.” The temperature in the press room seems to drop, stony silence meeting her announcement, before a cacophony of noise explodes, questions shouted from all corners of the room. Montrose raises a hand, silencing the reporters before continuing. “All members of the Ares IV crew are in good health, and there are no problems with any of their equipment. We anticipate that the Ares IV mission will be successful.” This settles the reporters, but their confusion grows: nothing is wrong, and if they had discovered something Montrose would have led with it, rather than allowing the confusion to build. “However, upon inspection of the Mars Ascent Vehicle, MAV, Dr. Morgan and Astronaut Spencers found Mark Watney, alive, in the MAV.”

And if the room’s earlier explosion was an explosion, this is a nuclear blast, clearing the room of it’s silence like a vacuum to dust. Despite Montrose’s announcement about questions, each reporter is howling their questions as loud as they can. Montrose exits the stage, leaving behind a confounded room and a world that will soon know the truth.

-

 _“Do you realize the_ shit storm _that is about to hit us?”_ -Annie Montrose


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation between Mark and the crew.

The Hab has a state of the art heating system, keeping the air within warm despite how much heat leaches into the Martian atmosphere around them. Despite the twenty-five degree weather to be found inside the Hab, it’s most recent occupant is wrapped in a thick blanket that he keeps pulled tight around his thin shoulders. A cover from one of the beds, it’s fireproof as per NASA regulations and insulates like a polar bear’s thick coat of fur. The occupant, Mark, pulls it tighter around him, adjusting the edge at his neck, before reaching one hand from beneath the blanket to tap out a message on the laptop that sits before him. The screen displays a chatroom, the one NASA created to send the messages as they are received rather than waiting for the data dump to send the information.

The message he writes out is simple: _It is_ not _your guys’ fault. You couldn’t have known I was alive. It’s really good to be able to talk to you again. MW._ When he hits the enter button, the message moves from the box at the bottom onto the screen, the first message of what will become many. Mark stares at the message, as though considering the contents that he himself had written. Then he frowns, pulling the blanket tighter around himself and preparing for the somewhat long wait that will happen before he receives the next message. At their present points, Earth and Mars are located over eight light minutes away, meaning that it takes over sixteen to get a reply.

Instead of watching the screen, Mark turns to look around the Hab, watching what his new crewmates are doing. Spencers is fiddling with a few pieces of machinery, picking through wires and bolts in search of the problem. Not far from him, in the lab, Holland is bent over a microscope as she examines the most recent samples brought in from an EVA. In his scant free time, Carter has chosen to find a quiet segment of the Hab and read on his laptop. It’s quiet throughout the large chamber, with nothing more than the machinery’s buzz filling the space.

Mark turns back to his laptop as it dings. Almost seventeen minutes after he sent the original message, and there is a reply. _Mark!_ Is the first word, and even through a screen it is charged with energy, as though the writer had imbued their spirit into the message so that the reader could hear what they said. _It’s so good to hear that you’re okay! How are you doing? BJ._ Beth Johanssen, the youngest member of Ares III, sysop and reactor technician and all around nerd. Mark smiles at the message and wraps his blanket closer around him. A few moments later, another message dings in: _We’re delighted to hear that you’re doing okay. Thank you for the video, it was very good to hear your voice again. ML_. A tear traces the curve of Mark’s cheek, clinging to the thin skin that coats his face. He scrubs it away with one hand before reaching out to tap out a message.

Right when he begins, another message comes in: _Hey… So I hear botany saved your life, which I find very strange as botany isn’t even a real science. RM._ Mark deleted the message he had begun to type and begins a new one. _Shut up, Martinez. Your only duty was PILOT. Which isn’t even a science by any definition. It’s really great to hear from you guys too. MW._ Another tear curves down his cheek, and this time Mark ignores it in favour of allowing it to leave a path down his cheek. Despite the tears, he’s smiling. It’s a bright grin, one that doesn’t display teeth but does reach his eyes. Tiny sobs are choked off, until all that remains is the shaking of his thin shoulders. He sends another message. _I’ve missed you guys. MW._

The messages come in almost twenty minutes later, an overwhelming combination from the entire crew. _We’ve missed you too. It’s good to have you back. AV. I’ll have you know that I am the only reason you even got to Mars alive. RM. How are you doing? CB. You’ve had one exchange in the past four years and you’re already back to arguing. Someone save me. ML._ The final one, from Johanssen, is, _When you get home I’m giving you the biggest bear hug ever and force-feeding you chocolate cake._ _BJ._ For a threat, it’s calm, more a promise of love and affection than a threat at all. Watney is now grinning at the screen and the show of love sent through it. He taps out a teasing message in reply.

_Vogel you Germans do have feelings!_

The Ares III crew consisted of six of the best trained astronauts in history. Their commander, Melissa Lewis, was known many circles as a woman of stone. Next in command was Rick Martinez, a former air force major with a seven-year-old son. Third was Alexander Vogel, a German national on the American mission by cooperation between the ESA and NASA. On the bottom half of the crew were Christopher Beck, Beth Johanssen, and Mark Watney. The doctor, the technician, and the engineer who liked to garden. This information was surmised as: five astronauts leave their sixth subordinate on a desolate planet with no hope of survival. Except for the bit where he did survive. Four for years. And now the five astronauts feel horrible about leaving the sixth subordinate behind.

_And I’m doing pretty well. I mean the whole not-eating-for-four-years thing kind of sucked, but I’m feeling better now that there are people around._ He frowned, and backspaced. _I’m feeling better now that I’m back on proper rations. Can’t wait to get home, Jojo. MW._ He signs off in the typical fashion, returning his single hand into the depths of his blankets and waits for a reply. It comes a short while later: _Hey by the way, Bethie adf62yhuwefasdfzxc8_ and cuts off sooner than it should. Mark grins at it as though he knows what had happened in the writing of that message. He mutters aloud to himself: “Martinez,” and it’s nothing more than a whisper. A few seconds later, another message comes in. _It’s Beth. We kind of wanted to tell you in person, but Chris and I got married two years ago. BJ._

Mark falls flailing out of the chair, a quiet shriek escapes his lips, and Spencers looks over with frown. “What the fuck, man? Are you okay?” He places his works down on the table, and makes his way over to where Mark sits, resting a hand on the emaciated man’s shoulder. Spencers glances at the screen, and squeezes Mark’s shoulder. “Oh yeah,” he says. “I heard about that- it made the papers.” He pauses for a moment. “Do you want me to ask for pictures of the wedding?”

Holland looks over at Spencers and mouths, “What?” He mouths back, “Nothing,” and she nods, as though she understands. In all likelihood, she does.

“That would be awesome,” Mark replies. His voice is jampacked with emotion, choked and clogging his throat before bubbling up. “So awesome, dude. Thank you.” Spencers pats his shoulder once more before moving away to speak with Holland under his breath, and Mark turns back to the screen.

_REALLY GUYS THAT’S SO AWESOME I’M SO HAPPY FOR YOU TWO!!!!!!!_ He might overuse the exclamation points, but Mark sends the message off anyways. While it’s technically impossible to charge a message with raw emotion, Mark does it. The single line conveys his joy and astonishment and delight with ease. It shoots through space at the speed of light, dancing across nothingness. Mark leans back in his chair and waits for a reply.

The final messages come in, less than twenty minutes later: _:). BJ &CB (BJB&CJB). _The second one, from Lewis, reads, _JPL is telling us to go away now. We’ll send you messages when we get a chance and emails as frequently as we can manage. Give Ares IV our greetings. ML._ And last of all is one from the entire crew. _With love, from Earth._ It screams Martinez. Mark shuts the laptop so that it closes with a gentle thump, and stands from the chair. He keeps the blanket wrapped around himself as he makes his way to the rec area, where Holland and Spencers sit, sitting himself down nearby and wrapping the blanket tighter yet. Spencers looked over and fired a grin at him.

“Hey there, Mark. Did you have a nice conversation with the Earthlings?” His voice is teasing and gentle, the rises and falls rolling off his tongue like a soccer ball down a long hill.

Mark frowns back at him, before his face relaxes back into an easy smile. He pulls his feet up beneath him, relaxing back in his chair. “It was good. Martinez tried to drag me for being a botanist when he’s not even a scientist in the first place.” He smiles at Spencers, showing a glimpse of his teeth before continuing. “He used to always drag me for ‘not being a real scientist’ even though I have two more PhDs than he does.” He’s smug at the idea, grinning a wild grin at Spencers. He’s damn near beaming.

Of course, Mark is unaware that the past hour is the most he’s smiled in over three years, and he’s unaware that his new team has never seen the way a grin lights up his face, and he’s unaware that the smiles reach his eyes and bring back the warmth they once held.

Both Holland and Spencers smile back at him, warm and happy and healthy, and Mark beams back.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry that this took so long. Whilst I am aware that it's not an excuse, my laptop broke for a solid three weeks, leaving me floundering to complete my entirely-digital schoolwork. Then when it was finally fixed it took me a little while to get through it. Anyways, a special thanks to 'ihearttwojacks' who 100% is the reason this chapter, in this form, exists.

 

When I check my messages at the end of the day, I’m expecting the normal: maybe a letter from a colleague about recent developments in one area of medicine or another, a few thousand questions that Annie Montrose, head of PR at NASA, needs the answers to, and a few messages from my friends and family back on Earth. What I get instead is two separate emails: the one from Annie Montrose with all the important questions (at my quick scan, one reads, “Is Watney eating full portions?”), one from Annie Montrose telling me to make Watney check his email, and the unanticipated message from Dr. Christopher Beck of Ares III. I stare at it for a few seconds, frown marring my features, before clicking it open to reveal the lengthy message.

_Morgan_ , it starts off. _Attached to this email are a variety of messages for Mark from the crew. We weren’t convinced that he would get around to checking that new email they set up for him, so you get to show them to him at some point. Before you do that, please read the entirety of this email and consider it’s contents. I’m aware that NASA has sent over a list of ailments that they think Mark has, and I’d like to recommend treatment options for each of them. This isn’t because I don’t trust your skill as a doctor, this is because you’ve only known Mark for six days. I don’t have much advice for malnutrition, but his favourite ration packets are chicken teriyaki, mac n cheese, and meatballs. His anxiety might make him want to store up food and eat as little as possible just in case, but don’t let him do this, obviously. Always have someone with him when he’s eating; for all that Mark’s stubborn as fuck, he will eat whole rations if you make him. If he starts making a lot of un-funny jokes, you should be concerned. He does his because he doesn’t want people to worry about him. A good course of action is a hug, which leads me to my next point._

_Mark is very tactile. He’d fallen asleep on each of our shoulder’s at least once by the time we completed our first month of training, and seems to prefer sleeping on people to actual beds. On the Hermes we always had a movie night once a week, and alternated who got to choose the movie- he was a huge fan of comedy and sci-fi, though I’m not sure how his opinion of the latter has changed. Also, if you guys have any nostalgic childhood films like The Incredibles or the 2012 Avengers film (you know, the one with ScarJo and poor Chris Evans, bless his hairless head), those would be good choices for a movie night. His parents raised him on bad movies, with a focus on sci-fi and superheroes. Anything past 2010 gets into the segment for not-nostalgic seeing as he was 16 at that point. To get to the point, give Mark lots and lots of hugs so long as they don’t seem to make him uncomfortable (again, with the jokes. If he makes jokes but gets a little teary, you’re good. If he asks you to stop, stop. If he flees, stop), and make sure that there are opportunities for him to reach out to you guys. Also, he’s not a fan of family time so that should be considered a back up plan._

_I have no idea what to do for depression. To be perfectly honest, I have never seen Mark distressed over anything. He was the only one whose smile never wavered through training, and I’m sure you know how difficult training is, seeing as you are on Mars. My best guess would be that he’ll bottle it up, hence why he wasn’t down during training. Whilst Mark is very social, he doesn’t come out of his shell well in large groups. It’s easier to make him open up one-on-one, which is something I recommend doing. It’s not that he doesn’t want to share, it’s that he doesn’t feel comfortable sharing with a large group. I’m not aware that anyone on your crew has experience with therapy, but if someone does, they should have sort of therapy sessions with him, probably. I’m kind of expecting that you lend a hand in that too, Morgan._

The letter comes to an abrupt halt after that, as though the writer had run out of time to continue and chosen to end the letter when it contained all it needed to without the pleasantries.

_Anyways, give Mark lots and lots of hugs for us and remind him that he’s been missed back here on Earth at every possible opportunity. Hugs! Beck._

I groan at it, but immediately call Blair over to read the email, and he skims his eyes over it quickly before saying, “We should probably listen to him.” I give him a look and he rolls his eyes at me. “Morgan, Dr. Beck has knew Watney for five or six years _before_ they went to Mars. I reckon that man could have _files_ on the psyche of each member of his crew. We should listen to him.” He pauses for a minute, considering my expression. “So lots of hugs, then?”

“It’s not that I don’t think that Dr. Beck’s ideas are worthy of our consideration, I’m just unsure as to how Watney will react to us, people that he doesn’t know well, being touchy feely with him,” I reply, uncertain of m steps. “All of what Dr. Beck has told us is information from four, five years ago now, and normally that wouldn’t have been such a big deal except that the entire time was a series of traumatizing incidents. And traumatizing incidents change people, Commander. We don’t even know if he likes touching people now.” I shudder. “God, this is a weird conversation.”

He shrugs with one shoulder, unable to dispute that. “We have to try, and if it goes well we continue.”

“Only,” I make my counteroffer, “if Watney makes the first move,” I pause, “weird, again. But if Watney makes the first move, we go for it. Hugs. Everything. But movie nights are a definite yes.”

If Blair were a cat, his whiskers would have twitched in amusement. “It is your call, but I’m just suggesting we try.”

“And I’m saying we do.”

That evening, I pulled up my copy of _The Avengers_ and forced it onto the big screen, the technology uncertain of my actions but willing to obey. Off-duty, Blair is as chill of a guy as you could find around, but prepared to leap back into _Commander Blair_ mode at any moment if the need arises, and he convinces Reed and Spencers to join us first, though they’re quickly followed by Carter and Watney. Our ever-serious German takes a little more cajoling, but Holland finally agrees and sits next to me with a grumble. “I do not understand why you Americans like your superhero movies so much,” she says, with her hands folded in her lap.

I mimic her thick accent. “I do not understand vhy you _Deutsch_ like your var movies so much.” Holland huffs, but submits herself to watching the movie as Clint Barton is possessed by Loki.

“My God,” says Spencers, who isn’t the least bit religious but who had crushed on Clint Barton all through high school, by his own admission. He nods approvingly. “He’s glorious.”

Holland rolls her eyes at him, blatantly disgusted by the public display of adoration. She mutters under her breath in German, something about dumb Americans and their dumb superhero films.

I mutter back to her under my breath. “Das isch mein Film und ich bin kanadisch,” I murmur. “I’m Canadian.”

“Kanadisch? Amerikaner? Unterschied? Difference?”

I roll my eyes at her before returning to the film, where Steve Rogers punches a sandbag from where it hangs, sending it blasting across the room as though it had been hit by a freight train rather than a person. Sneaking a glance at Watney, he’s near bouncing on the edge of the seat as he awaits the real action’s beginning. Sneaking a camera out from my pocket, I snap a silent picture for Dr. Beck. Carter notices, shooting me a look before returning to the movie. He perks up at the sight of Director Fury in all his one-eyed glory, leather trench coat firmly in place.

As the movie continues onwards at the upbeat pace that all superhero films have, Watney begins to relax. He sinks into the chair, half leaning on the ever-formal Reed who sits next to him and is completely engrossed by the contents of her laptop, the soft glow not even disrupting the film. She glances over, a little confused before returning to her work.

I extract myself from the comfortable chair to take another picture, again going unnoticed by Watney, and I shoot a glance at Blair, who’s whole attention is focused on the film playing. As the group around me drifts off, I pull my laptop up and fire off an email at Dr. Beck.

_Dr. Beck. We had a look at your suggestions and are just finishing up the 2012 Avengers movie, as per your suggestions. The attached images are of Watney. Please share them with the Ares III crew and any important relations of Watney. Have an excellent evening, Morgan._

I fire off the message and rejoin my crew, finding my eyes falling heavy as New York is destroyed by thousands of alien robots.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. Sorry it took me so long, though I do have an actual excuse. First my laptop broke, and then as soon as it was fixed I broke my hand, and then as soon as that was healed my laptop broke again. My laptop is such a mess. It's been broken three times in the past four months. Enjoy the chapter.

The ARES IV crew does some debating when they first arrive on the Hermes, and they eventually agree that spacing old storage containers to create space on a deep shelf in the Rec is as good an option as any. The new bunk is a far cry from one of the actual cabins, but with the extra mattress laying where storage containers once had, it’s infinitely better than the rover. Thus, Watney does not complain about the less than ideal conditions, preferring to simply enjoy the feeling of the soft mattress beneath him. Given the bunk’s public location, he connives an extra blanket off Blair and presses one end beneath the storage containers above him to create a hanging curtain, a semblance of privacy on the small ship.

On his first evening in the Hermes, he falls asleep to the sound of the reactor humming in the depths of the ship, purring like a pleased kitten. The mechanical noise fills the ship with a heavy drone, constant but not half as omnipresent as the blare of an airplane’s engines after takeoff.

The second night on the Hermes, he pulls open a spare laptop, recently uploaded with some family pictures that he brought to Mars four years ago, and pulls up the technical readouts for the Hermes on half the screen, and a chatroom on the other side. In a little corner, he pulls up a single image- an aging couple, not yet old but certainly not young, with the husband’s arm wrapped over his wife’s shoulders. _How can that many people sleep on the Death Star?_ He types. _Makes no sense._

A reply comes in twenty minutes later. _Why are you awake? Go to sleep. ML._

For a few moments, Watney does nothing more than gaze at the message, a smile playing off of his lips as he reaches out to touch it. His fingers fall short, and he types in his message instead. _Couldn’t sleep_ , he writes, the only explanation he can give _. Weird to be on Hermes again. Especially without you guys._

There are about nine light minutes between the Hermes and Earth now, and Watney uses the quick speed to send his crew as many messages as possible, all while the night wains on. It takes ten minutes to receive and write a reply, so Watney receives a message every twenty minutes.

Lewis’ next message comes in twenty minutes after Watney sent his own. _Go to bed. We’ll be here to talk to you in the morning. Sleep is important._

_I can’t_ , he writes back, letters slow beneath his fingers, clumsy even after four years of typing up his every move. _Every time I try to sleep I dream that something bad happens._

Watney’s head lolls to one side after he sends the message off, eyes gazing at the blank wall to his right. His fingers fiddle with the edge of his blanket as his eyes slip shut, the soft fabric rolling under his fingers. Within a minute, he jerks awake to sound of the Hermes’ gentle humming and the buzz of the now-aging laptop. He blinks around him, placing the laptop off to the side with a gentle thunk before letting his eyes close once more. This time he tosses and turns, rolling from one side to the other in a desperate attempt to get comfortable. Just as he begins to slip away once more, a ding gets his attention.

_Want to talk to Dr. Shields?_

_No_ , he types, frowning at the message. A series of emotions flicker off his face, colouring his once-bright features with the grey of an overcast sky. _She’ll just make me do more breathing exercises. And all those make me do is notice absolutely everything. I remember when my professors started making me meditate in college it was awful, because I would be just fine before but as soon as we finished I’d have a killer headache and everything would be louder_. He sends it off, glowering at the screen as he does.

When Lewis’ reply comes in twenty minutes later, her voice can be heard on every letter that she’s written, all facts backed up with data and a constant, omnipresent guilt. _Are you tense right now?_ She asks, the words blinking against the screen.

Watney twists his face, nose scrunching up as the edges of his lips pull down. The expression holds for a half second before melding back into a neutral expression. Hesitant, he reaches to wrap his fingers around the back of his wrist, index finger resting directly over his pulse point. He counts the beats aloud, whispering into the temperature-controlled air of the Hermes.

_Yes_.

_Remember that playlist Dr. Shields sent over? The one with the flute? Try listening to that as you go to sleep. I have to leave now, but I’ll have the Johanssen-Becks check in with you in the morning. I’ll talk to you later. And talk to Dr. Shields- she can recommend something. Get some rest. ML._

With a hefty sigh, Watney flicks through the computer’s files until he opens an audio file, and the low sounds of a Native American flute flood from the device into his small sleeping area. The music is quieter than most modern forms, with the notes long and fluid, like the gurgle of water over rocks in a creak. From time to time, a series of notes blend together over the course of a short period of time, the sounds dipping into lower notes before they inevitably lengthen once more. In the background, a gentle drum beat fills any empty space, and when another flute joins in the two sounds become a harmonious pair, one playing a more complicated string whilst the other keeps up the steady, deep notes it had played previously.

The gentle harmony fills all empty space, seeping over and around obstacles like water filling a container, the omnipresent noise soothing away the Hermes’ metallic hum and making way for the peace of a good night’s rest.


End file.
